A Dangerous Love (8 page)

He reached the hall and nearly smiled when he saw Lady Rosalind turn away as if she hadn’t been spying on them throughout their conversation. He’d never seen a woman so incapable of subtlety.

He held his arm out to her. “Shall we go?”

True to form, she ignored it to stalk off down the hall with all the dignity of a great lady. It was quite a performance, but he’d seen the woman flouncing about in her wrapper—she was about as dignified as an orange seller at the theater.

“This way, Mr. Brennan,” she called back. “There’s much to see and no time to waste.”

Casting a wry glance at Daniel, he followed her. At least he could enjoy the view, he thought, as his gaze swung unerringly to her generous hips. That dramatic gown clung far too sweetly to her curves for a man’s sanity. Didn’t she know her walk wasn’t the least demure, that it rivaled a courtesan’s for sheer seductiveness?

Probably. It would be just like the damnable woman to try feminine wiles on him. Well, they wouldn’t work. He could withstand the attractions of any woman—especially his enemy’s daughter—
if he made a concerted effort to control his wayward thoughts.

Now if only he could control his wayward cock…

Percival, the Earl of Swanlea, sometimes wondered how long he could endure this agony of living. He could not breathe deeply without setting off the coughing. His muscles ached down to the bone, and he could feel the disease creeping beyond his lungs and into the rest of his body, destroying its very fibers.

Most of all, he missed Solange. If not for the girls, he would give up his struggle and join his beloved wife in the great beyond. But he must see all his daughters secure ere he died, no matter what physical pain it cost him, and that meant finding one of them a wealthy husband. Which was why he’d taken this risk with Knighton, of all people.

It was a great risk indeed, bringing him here. Only the breath of Death on his face, coming closer with each passing night, dared him to try it.

He glanced over to where Helena sat at his writing table, bent over her painting-box contraption as she daubed lightly at some ivory squares. Where she got the ivory he did not know, but then, no one told him anything now that he was infirm.

He could still deduce some matters for himself. For one thing, he knew Rosalind was wrong about Juliet. His youngest was clearly eager to marry Knighton—he could tell from the modest way she hid her face whenever the marriage was mentioned. And he knew, no matter what Rosalind protested, that his middle daughter was peeved over Juliet’s marrying first.

But whatever her reasons for protest, he would ignore them—for if he did not make peace with his
old enemy’s son, all his daughters would lose their home and the chance of a secure future.

Helena sighed softly over her work, irritating him with her bloody eternal patience.

“Will he come soon?” Percival snapped.

“Yes, Papa. Juliet is bringing him upstairs after breakfast.”

“Good. I am anxious to see him.”

The door swung open only moments later and a man stood in the doorway behind Juliet, dwarfing her with his amazing height.

Leonard’s son, stalwart as a castle. After all these years, the babe Percival had wronged stood before him. Old feelings swamped him—resentment, anger…and heavier than them all, guilt. At least Leonard had sired a son when Percival had fathered no son at all. But that did not assuage his guilt much.

“Good morning, Mr. Knighton,” Helena said, drawing Percival from his unpleasant memories. The girl used one hand on the desk to push herself to a stand.

She was remarkable—graceful and polished, despite her infirmity. She owed those qualities to Solange’s training. Percival owed much to Solange himself. At least he could take pleasure in knowing she would be proud to see him here now with Leonard’s son, making things right as best he could without ruining the girls’ lives.

The thought stiffened his resolve. “Come in, sir, and let me see you.”

As Juliet flitted into the room in all her young, innocent splendor, Knighton followed behind. The man seemed to pay her charms little heed, which worried Percival.

He dragged himself up straighter in the bed.
“Close the door,” he commanded. “We cannot have the servants sticking their noses in our business, eh?”

The big man nodded and did Percival’s bidding, but once the door was closed, he approached the bed with a wary expression.

“Speaking of employees,” Percival continued, “Helena tells me you brought your man of affairs with you to Swan Park.”

“I did.”

“Good, good.” He hoped Knighton’s reason for it was so they might draw up the marriage settlement with all due speed. “His name is Brinley or something?”

“Brennan.” Knighton clipped the word off as if offended. “It’s Brennan.”

“An Irishman, eh? I suppose they have their uses.” Percival gestured to the door. “Well, where is the man? Why is he not here?”

“We didn’t want to crowd too many people into the room, Papa,” Juliet broke in. “Mr. Brennan is with Rosalind. She’s showing him around the estate.”

That could be a promising development. If Rosalind stayed occupied with the man of affairs, she could not drive Knighton off with her bold manner and impudent tongue.

“Come closer, man,” Percival demanded. “My eyesight is not so keen as it used to be. Let me get a better look at you.”

The man advanced like a soldier preparing to meet the enemy. He was so tall the top of his head brushed the fringe hanging down from the canopy of the bed, and his broad shoulders blocked out some of the light.

Percival squinted up at him. “You do not resemble your father a bit.”

“I look like my mother.”

“You do not much resemble Georgina either.”

Knighton seemed confused. “You knew her?”

“Of course. Did you not realize that? I mean, considering—” Percival broke off with a glance at Helena. The girls must not hear this. Besides, he should first determine how much Knighton knew. It was possible, he supposed, that Leonard and Georgina had told him very little. The case Percival had brought against Leonard had occurred when the boy was but a babe. “In any case, I knew her very well. Once.”

“I…um…never heard her talk about you.” Knighton stumbled over his words as if expecting any moment to have them contradicted.

That pained Percival, though he knew he deserved it. “No doubt she thinks badly of me.” He dragged in a heavy breath that set off a fit of coughing. Juliet hurried to his side with a basin and his tincture of comfrey, while Helena stood by, looking helpless.

He spit into the basin, then swallowed some of the tincture and cleared his throat. “You see how my daughter coddles me, Knighton. I would not recommend a lung disease to anyone, but it has its compensations.” He caught Juliet’s hand and patted it. “My dear gel here is always hovering around me. She is my pride and joy, a good gel with a good heart.”

For no reason that Percival could see, Knighton shot Helena a look. He, too, glanced over at his oldest, but aside from standing more stiffly than usual, she looked the same as always to him—reserved, serene, the perfect lady.

Dismissing the odd moment, he returned his attention to Knighton. “So what do you think of
Swan Park? I suppose your father told you all about it when you were a boy. Did his description do it justice?”

“Nothing could do it justice, m’lord.”

Peculiar how Knighton’s pronunciations were a bit vulgar, but he supposed that was to be expected from a man who worked so much in trade. Given all that Percival had learned in recent years about the man’s childhood…

No, he would not think about that. It weighed too heavily on his conscience.

Better to get right to the important part of this conversation. “Well, we are pleased to have you here.” He glanced over at Helena. “You and Juliet may go now. I should like to speak with Knighton in private.”

Juliet fled the room with surprising speed as Helena gathered up her painting box and all its pieces.

That drew Knighton’s attention. “Do you paint, Lady Helena?”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I paint miniatures.”

“Are you painting a portrait of your father?”

“No, I’m merely touching up a copy of Mama’s portrait.”

“She does a bloody fine job with the little things,” Percival remarked, proud as always of his eldest daughter’s ability. “For a girl, that is. You must get Juliet to show you some of Helena’s miniatures.”

With a considering glance at Helena, Knighton nodded. “I’ll do that.”

“Papa is too kind,” Helena remarked dryly as she walked past Knighton to the door. “I’m no artist. It’s merely something to pass the time.”

“Nonsense,” Percival interjected, smiling at Knighton. “They are very pretty pictures. She puts
all her energy into them, since she cannot ride or dance or any of that.”

Something clattered to the floor, making Knighton turn around.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Helena apologized in a choked voice, looking pale as she stared down at something that had dropped from her box. She started to leave—probably because picking it up would be too difficult with her weak leg—but Knighton quickly bent to pick up the object for her.

He handed it to her. “Nothing to be sorry about. Here you are.”

Percival watched in rapt amazement as a blush spread over her cheeks. He had not seen his reserved daughter blush in years. Whyever was she doing it now?

She took what looked like a piece of her ivory from the man, never lifting her eyes to his face. “Thank you,” she stammered in a manner very unlike her usual reserved one. Then, without a word of farewell to her father, she limped from the room.

When Knighton faced Percival again, his expression was stony cold. “You didn’t need to remind her of it. I’m sure she has enough reminders as it is.”

Percival was all at sea. “Remind her of what?”

“That she can’t ‘ride or dance or any of that.’”

“Pish, do not concern yourself over that. Helena is not a silly child to be bothered by such remarks.”

“You don’t know women very well, do you, m’lord?” Knighton remarked.

“I should think I know my own daughter.” But this was not what he wanted to discuss with the man who held the future of Swan Park in his hands. “And speaking of daughters, how do you like Juliet?”

Something in Knighton’s countenance struck him
uneasily, a flicker of distaste or even anger. Then it was gone. “I like her very well. So far.”

“So far?” Percival echoed.

“I only just met her. I haven’t had time to form much of an opinion.”

Bloody hell, the man was delaying. He glared at Knighton. “But you do understand what is at stake, do you not? You understand what you must do to inherit.”

Knighton stiffened. “I do. But you didn’t say I had to make up my mind at once.”

A chill shook Percival’s old bones. “What is there to make up your mind about? The only way you will get the proof is if you marry Juliet.” It was not entirely true—he did not want to die with his sins on his conscience. But he had to try this first, for he also did not want to leave his daughters destitute.

“You didn’t say it had to be Juliet,” Knighton said smoothly. “Your letter said I could choose any of your daughters.”

Percival could not have been more astonished if Knighton had said he fancied the housekeeper for a wife. “That is true, but I did not think…You would rather marry Rosalind? Or Helena?”

The man’s thoughts were impossible to guess from his wooden expression. “I don’t know. How can I say until I know them better?”

The thought of remaining in this limbo any longer made Percival shudder, yet he was hardly in a position to protest. Still, he must not let the man drag his feet for long. There was not much time. “Very well. Stay here for a while to acquaint yourself with my daughters. In a week or so, we’ll discuss this again.”

Knighton’s smooth smile unnerved Percival. “Thank you, m’lord. I promise you won’t regret it.”

Chapter 6

Won’t you come into the garden? I would like my roses to see you
.

Richard Brinsley Sheridan, Anglo-Irish playwright and owner of Drury Lane Theatre, to a young lady

T
he man was sly, she’d give him that, Rosalind thought as she swept ahead of Mr. Brennan into the deer park. It had taken her all morning, but she’d finally figured out what he was up to.

“Don’t tell me, let me guess,” he said behind her in his annoyingly snide tone. “We’re entering the Forest of Arden.”

“You’re thinking of a different part of the shire,” she said dryly. “This is our deer park. It is widely accounted to be the finest in all of Warwickshire.”

She sucked in a deep breath of woodruff-scented air and held it, eager for his answer. If her theory were correct, he would now expound upon the deer park’s faults as he had with all the other portions of the estate she’d shown him this morning.

Well, she would call him a liar to his face if he did. No one could possibly object to the deer park. Papa himself had overseen its progress through years of careful management.

With the air of a man examining a property for purchase, he scrutinized his surroundings. “It well warrants such praise.”

She nearly collapsed in surprise. The man was actually admitting that some part of Swan Park met his high standards! “Do you mean to tell me that it does not ‘require improvement’?” That had been his claim for every single room in the manor house.

He raised an eyebrow. “No, I don’t think it does.”

“You certainly can’t call it a ‘funeral pyre for foliage’ as you did the greenhouse,” she persisted.

“Very true.”

“But wait, the deer park is dirty—I had forgotten how important cleanliness is to you. It must be, if you could call our dairy unclean. Your assertion came as quite a shock to my dairy manager, the woman we have all nicknamed Mrs. White Glove.”

It was that absurd assertion that had led Rosalind to figure out his scheme. The foolish man apparently intended to provoke her into fleeing his disagreeable company, leaving him free to roam the estate alone.